


checking out

by thanks_tacos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Case Fic, Gen, Gore, Horror, Psychological Horror, SPN Eldritch Bang, all the demon blood/ive been to hell drama... its here, and some humor, slight brotherly h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26974492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanks_tacos/pseuds/thanks_tacos
Summary: A motel in the middle of the desert, a missing wife and a deep, blue well. Sam and Dean tackle an unconventional enemy - a building that knows their deepest fears, and to get out, they might just have to face them. Set after episode 4.04.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 30
Kudos: 45





	checking out

**Author's Note:**

> my piece for the spn eldritch bang!  
> huge thanks to my artist [girlinthemirrorbluenight-library](https://girlinthemirrorbluenight-library.tumblr.com/) for the amazing art, the amount of detail and the style are wonderful!!! here's their art post [x](https://girlinthemirrorbluenight-library.tumblr.com/post/631792140238897152/art-for-the-2020-eldritch-bang-read-the-fic). i also wanna thank my beta [Fledhyris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fledhyris/pseuds/Fledhyris) who caught all the errors and gave awesome critical feedback, as always.  
> hope you'll enjoy! :)

Dean's eyes are closing by the time Sam finally points to the motel. It's odd he didn't notice it before; it's not like there's anything around them for miles. Just the desert, the straight line of the asphalt, and the burning sun. 

Normally, Dean'd appreciate the view, very western-like, true Americana. But it's getting late, he's been driving all day, and he's not even sure if Frank's case is legit. 

He takes a right and pulls up to the motel. There's a tiny gas station next to it, just gas dispensers looking like no one's touched them in ages. The motel itself makes a better impression. It's a low, long building, walls and roof bleached by the sun, but the doors are painted a bright, striking blue. 

Dean thinks he sees someone staring at them through the window; the curtain falls down, like someone's just dropped it. Maybe that's Frank. 

'Not too shabby,' Sam comments, throwing open the door and stretching his long legs. Dean agrees. His entire body aches when he gets out, and he's immediately greeted by a swarm of dust, flying right into his face. He coughs and rubs his eyes. 

'Fuck,' he says, reaching for his duffel. Something catches his attention. A - key card? Visible on top of his folded clothes, where the bag's unzipped. Sam rummaged through it earlier, looking for dad's journal. 

'You stole the key?' Dean asks, picking it up and dangling it for Sam to see. It's white, with the room number thirty-four. 'Thought you brought it back to the office at the last place.' 

'I did,' Sam frowns. 'It must've been your copy.' 

'I didn't get a copy,' Dean complains, but Sam just gives him a _look._ True, Dean was wasted when they checked in last night. He doesn't even really remember the motel. Something pink, like flamingos. Floral pattern on the walls. Good water pressure. 'Fine, whatever.' 

They go to the reception office, but it's empty. There are racks of old magazines, but the place looks stylish, with polished floorboards and fans spinning overhead. Dean hits the bell, once and then a few times more, the annoying sound piercing the eerie silence. 

'Dude,' Sam scolds him, and grabs his hand when he moves to hit the bell once more.

'I'm fucking tired,' Dean scowls at him. 'I ain't hunting nothing tonight, just so you know.' 

'Let's meet Frank in the morning,' Sam agrees. He has dark circles under his eyes, Dean only notices now. He frowns, but before he can ask, the back door slams open, making them both jump. 

'Howdy, fellas,' a middle aged woman says wearily, and stops behind the counter. Her hair is tied back with a scarf, her skin dry and tawny. She's wearing a practical dress and a kind smile, though her front teeth are missing. Dean can't decide if the whole setup is modern or, uh, authentic. 

'We'd like a room, please,' Sam says, polite and approachable as always. Dean doesn't forget about the dark circles. Nightmares? Fuck if he remembers anything from his whiskey coma last night. He should keep an eye on Sam. 

'One room. A king?' the attendant raises her eyebrows, almost mockingly. Dean doesn't like her.

'Two queens,' he replies icily. 'S'there cable?' 

She regards him, incredulous. 

'Is this America?' she retorts. Sam snorts next to him. 'There's also an ice dispenser outside, and a minibar. Anything else your heart desires, sweetie?' 

Oh, Dean’s game. He feels anger well up in him, fast like blood in a fresh cut. 'Yeah, to be away from this _dump-'_

'We're sorry,' Sam cuts in, putting a hand on Dean’s chest. Dean stares at it, offended. 'My brother's tired. We've come a long way. Just give us the key, please, I’ll pay. Go outside,' he directs the last sentence at Dean, who balks at the words. 'Seriously, man.' 

Dean storms out of the office. He doesn't really know why he's so pissed. Actually, scratch that. The world is ending, he’s been to hell, real Hell, and Sam’s drinking demon blood and conspiring with a demon bitch. But that doesn’t matter now, cause Sam needs to go on a soul-cleansing trip to help Bobby’s friend. It’s not even a friend, Dean decides, kicking up dirt and looking at Baby. Just an old acquaintance. Dean is Bobby’s friend. Sam is. Not some Frank guy from “that time in the 80s”, crying cause he can’t find his wife. 

Dean walks around the building. Predictably, there’s just more of the desert, stretches of wilderness. Dean’s seen the movies, he knows how easy it would be to get lost out here; if the Impala ran out of gas, they’d be stranded. Nothing for miles except this shady motel and a distraught husband with a potential case. 

And a well. It’s jarring, painted the same blue as the doors. It stands out against the desolate, dusty landscape. Dean walks up to it. Could there really be water down there? God, he hopes they won’t have to pull buckets of it just to take a shower. But it’s so hot out, it’d surely dry up. He should ask Sam, he’d know if it’s possible for a desert to have a functioning well. Instead of saving his question for later, though, he just wants to check it out himself. He’s almost there, ready to lean in and take a glance - usually, it’s disappointing, cause it’s too dark to see. All he gets is that it’s _deep_ , before Sam calls out: 

‘Dean! What are you doing?’ 

Dean startles and turns around. His brother is standing on the motel’s porch, hands raised in exasperation. 

‘Making a wish to never come here again,’ Dean says with a smirk, and fishes out a quarter from his pocket. He makes a show of dropping it in the well. Sam grimaces, Dean can see it clearly as he’s walking back. 

‘People could be _drinking_ that,’ he wrinkles his nose in disgust. Dean keeps the smirk on his face. ‘Besides, that’s not how it works. If you throw the coin inside a well, it means you wish to come back.’ 

‘Thought that was about fountains,’ Dean muses, as they go to their assigned room.

‘I think any body of water will do,’ Sam rolls his eyes and swipes the key card in the electronic lock.

‘Here goes nothing,’ Dean murmurs, expecting moldy wallpaper and stained sheets. 

‘Be positive,’ Sam admonishes him softly, but with a knowing smile. They’ve been through this a million times before; always that feeling of hazy anticipation when entering their home for the night. 

The door creaks as it opens, and the room is… amazing. Dean stares, mouth agape. The two beds are freaking _immaculate_ . All the furniture seems new, made from glistening wood - _expensive_ wood, from the looks of it - and the carpet is so soft, Dean’s actually surprised by the urge to take off his shoes before he steps on it. 

‘Holy crap,’ Sam says next to him, apparently feeling the same way. He dumps his duffel on the bed. ‘How’s that for your delicate taste?’ 

‘Meh,’ Dean forces himself to say, and shuts the door. ‘It’s fine.’ 

Sam just shakes his head at him. It’s fond, though, and Dean feels a hesitant smile on his lips. It’s been a while since they - a while since they’ve been _them_. Before Hell, hell, before the deal, maybe - that’s how it feels now. 

‘Dibs on the shower,’ Dean says in lieu of a brotherly love confession, and disappears into the bathroom. 

Later that evening, they share a bottle of whiskey on the wooden porch, staring at the desert. They can hear some occupants in the other rooms, but the porch is all theirs. 

‘There’s complimentary breakfast at eight,’ Sam mentions, when it’s Dean’s turn to take a swig. ‘Still think this place is a dump?’ 

Dean swallows his Jack Daniels and exhales loudly. 

‘Yep,’ he says, popping the p. ‘What’s this Frank’s deal, by the way?’ 

‘You know his wife went missing,’ Sam replies. He looks pensive, kind of not-there, for a moment. Apart from the tanned strip of skin across his nose, his face is pale. ‘Frank was here with her, vacationing. Apparently, she just disappeared one day, a week ago. He’s searched everywhere, the cops came, found nothing. They think she just drove back to town, ditched him.’ 

‘Huh,’ Dean comments. ‘So Frank doesn’t hunt anymore?’ 

‘No,’ Sam sighs. ‘Probably better off, anyway.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Dean chews his lip. Okay, so a missing wife. ‘So he thinks it’s…’ 

‘Our kinda thing, I guess,’ Sam finishes. ‘Not like he found anything confirming it, but - old habits.’ 

‘Okay, seriously,’ Dean tilts his head, squints his eyes at Sam. ‘Why are we here? Why do you wanna get a leading role in a Frantic remake?’

‘Bobby asked us for help,’ Sam shrugs. Bullshit. There’s some uncomfortable silence for a moment, because Dean’s not much for subtlety, but he’s a little worried. 

‘And it’s got nothin’ to do with you looking so wrecked?’ Dean asks finally, trying to sound casual. ‘Or, you know. The demon blood?’ 

Sam gets angry so quickly, it’s like a shift in the air, Dean can feel it. His brother slams the bottle onto the table, meeting his eyes. 

‘No,’ he replies, voice level. ‘It’s got nothing to do with demon blood, Dean. I thought it’d be nice if we went hunting like old times. Especially considering the state of things,’ he gets up. ‘But I guess _things_ just won’t change.’ 

He leaves Dean on the porch and goes back inside, and Dean feels more off-balance than he’d like to admit. Sam is different now. Dean’s different too. He’s the weak link, and he’s got a secret of his own. Good job trying to enjoy his time with Sam; it won’t be like old times, not ever again. The next sip of whiskey is bitter on his tongue. 

There’s quite a lot of folks around, it turns out. They all come down to the small lunchroom at the front of the building and gather at the tables. Dean counts ten people, mostly older. No one below twenty-five, no hot girls either, to his disappointment. Breakfast is good, though. He loads his plate while Sam scans the room for Frank. 

‘Dude, eat first, work later,’ Dean grumbles. They didn’t really talk after their slight - _disagreement_ the night before, but the beds were heavenly. Dean finally feels rested. Sam - not so much. His eyes are even more tired, his hair is a mess - did he not pack his conditioner? Dean’d joke, but he’s too concerned. When Sam only nibbles at his salad, he forces him to try some bacon. 

They knock on the door to Frank’s room fifteen minutes later. Number 21, which means they’re eight rooms away. The building is long. Dean looks at it, appraisingly. It’s gotta have like twenty, twenty-five rooms. 

‘Frank?’ Sam asks gently, and Dean snaps out of it. The guy who opens the door definitely _wasn’t_ at breakfast. He looks freaking haunted. He’s unshaven, old, ragged. Gray hair covers half his face. 

‘Winchester?’ he rasps, his voice straight out of a “Smoking Kills” campaign. 

‘Two of them, yeah,’ Dean says. ‘Whatcha got for us, Frank?’ 

Frank pulls the door open, letting them in. Looks like no one’s cleaned here for the past week, but - the wallpaper is torn, like someone clawed it, the mattress is ripped open, spewing fluffs of white cotton on the floor. Dean exchanges a look with Sam. 

‘Irene’s gone,’ Frank says. ‘This place, it took her.’

According to Frank, the motel is evil. Not haunted, not cursed - just evil. No entity behind it, no tragic backstory, just bad things happening over and over. A Bermuda Triangle with complimentary breakfast and infinite vacancy. 

He had nothing to back it up with. Just a feeling, he said. Evil, pumping through the walls like corrupted blood sustaining a rotten heart. 

'Have you seen the _shower?_ ' Dean asks Frank, incredulously. 'The freaking silk curtains? This place don't exactly look like the devil's lair.' 

'That's what it _wants_ you to think!' Frank snaps, running a hand through his sweaty hair. 'Irene knew. It scared her. I just want her back-' he cuts himself off, mouth trembling. 

'Okay, Frank-' Sam turns gentle, and even Dean feels a pang of sympathy. 'Why’s the wallpaper so torn up?' 

'I,' Frank looks down at his hands. His nails are ruined, fingernails bleeding; he clawed the walls on his own. 'I just wanted to go home.' His gaze snaps back up, and he stares at Sam pleadingly. 'You gotta believe me. I've been a hunter for years, and something's seriously wrong, I can feel it. Irene's still here, somewhere, but I couldn't find her.' His eyes dart around the place. 'Will you stay?' 

'Yeah, Frank, we'll stay,' Dean tells him placatingly. 'We've come all this way to help you, right? We'll do our best to research the place.' 

'Get some rest, huh?' Sam suggests, looking around the room critically. 'Let's meet at five. We'll discuss our next step.' 

'Thank you,' Frank breathes, with immense relief. Dean's mouth quirks up. It's nice to see the guy at least a little less hectic. 'Thank you so much, boys.' 

'Don't mention it,' Sam opens the door and moves to leave. Just as they cross the threshold, Frank grabs Dean's sleeve. His mangled hand looks even more grisly in the burning sun. God, Dean thinks, guy's gonna need a therapist. 

'She - she doesn't know how to swim, you see,' Frank says, helplessly. Sam and Dean frown at him, it seems so random. 'She was so scared of it.' His eyes flick up to Dean's, and he's startled by the sanity in them. They're so clear. For a moment he feels certain that Frank is right, he's ready to believe him. 

Frank releases his jacket. 'Sorry. I just miss her, is all.' He chuckles humorlessly, his shoulders sagging. 'See you at five.' 

'Okay, so what's your opinion on Frank?' Dean asks, once Sam closes the door to their room.

'He's unhinged,' Sam replies, and Dean raises an eyebrow. 

'That's cold, Sammy,' he says. It is. It always catches him off guard when Sam's so professionally dickish. 'To me he just looked like he’s missing his wife.' 

'Yeah, and went all Wolverine on the walls,' Sam counters. 'I think _something's_ going on. But is this motel evil? There needs to be a beginning to it. Some starting point.'

'That'd be a haunting, though,' Dean muses. 'He said it's not a haunting. Or a possession. Can buildings be possessed?' 

'Why not,' Sam shrugs. 'Cars can.' 

Dean groans. 

'Ugh, _don't_ remind me.' 

'Okay, so - not a ghost, not a possession, and that's based just on Frank's feelings. He's not psychic. I’ll look into the lore, and we should do the usual, EMF, EVP, ask the neighbors if they've seen anything weird, cold spots-' 

'Yeah, I know the drill, Sam,' Dean cuts him off, and hesitates. 'So we agree that we believe him? Irene didn't just up and leave to look for the brighter side of life away from her loony husband?' 

Sam opens her picture on the laptop. Frank sent it to Bobby and then Bobby sent it to Sam, and now Dean gets to see it. Frank still looks old, but he's smiling, his hair slicked back, sporting a trimmed gray beard. He's embracing an older woman, the sweet grandma kind, wearing a flowery dress and huge glasses. They look like they're still very much in love. 

'Gross,' Dean says. 'The Notebook vibes.' 

'You've seen The Notebook?' Sam asks, ready to taunt. 

'Shuddup,' Dean retorts, but his heart is beating faster, cause if Irene didn't leave - even if their relationship wasn't as picture-perfect as it seems, she looks too old to be making a decision to run away and start a new life - well, if she didn't leave, it means she’s still here. _she doesn't know how to swim, you see._ It felt like a hint, and so did the bright blue well outside, possibly filled with water and suspiciously conspicuous. ‘You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?' 

Sam lets out a breath, looking pained. Dean takes that as a yes. 

'It's worth checking out,' his brother says and gets up from his seat, grabbing a flashlight from the duffel. They open the back door and head to the well. Just like the day before, there’s no one on the porch. Does everyone just sit in their rooms all day? 

'Think the cops would've missed it?' Dean questions, stopping next to the violently blue ledge. ‘It kinda stands out.’ 

‘Yeah, exactly,’ Sam mutters and turns on the flashlight, and they both lean over the well. It’s just dark at first, deep and stinking of mold. _Mold_? Dean thinks. It’s way too dry out there. But then, something gets his attention - he thinks he can see a shape under what must be gleaming water. Sam shifts next to him, keeping the beam of light pointed in the same direction, so he must be seeing it as well. The water ripples as something surfaces; an arm, a shoulder, a chest. It’s a big, lean body, and Dean frowns, cause it can’t be Irene. It turns sluggishly, bloated with water, and Dean can see the face. Short wet hair. Eyes, green and wide-open, staring into nothing. It’s his face, it’s his blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves the corpse is wearing, the one he got on sale in Target, and that’s the barely visible amulet around his neck-

‘Sam,’ he whispers, horrified. This is fucked up, this isn’t how it’s supposed to-

‘Man, I know,’ Sam replies, voice weak. 

He knows _what?!_ Dean flicks his gaze to Sam. His brother stares at their finding with pity and sympathy. Is he not at all bothered by seeing Dean’s corpse floating in the well? Dean looks back at it, gruesome as it is, but that’s when he realizes - it’s not him at all. This time all he sees is an old lady in a pretty dress, and she’s been here a while, her features distorted by decay. Irene. 

‘Fuck,’ Dean swears, hands shaking. ‘Sam, I saw- I thought I saw-’ 

‘What?’ Sam frowns and turns to him, concerned. Dean falters. It’s probably just his Hell flashbacks messing with him, or - or the sun, whatever- it wasn’t him. He leans closer, squinting his eyes, but there’s no doubt about who’s down there, and no doubt that it’s never been him. 

_maybe there’s more,_ his brain tells him, frantically. _maybe you’re still under the water, maybe you’re waiting to come up again_. 

It doesn’t make any sense. Dean shakes his head and focuses on Sam, who’s growing alarmed. 

‘Nothing,’ he tries to fake a smile, his throat dry. ‘We should go chat with Frank, huh?’ he deflects, but this case is looking weirder by the second. Irene looks like she’s spent the whole week in the well - unlike Dean’s dead twin, who looked pretty fresh. So she’s been here all along, around seven days. When the cops came, when Frank supposedly searched the place. ‘You do realize he practically led us here?’ 

‘That’s why I’m worried,’ Sam clicks off the flashlight and Irene’s buried in the darkness again, blessedly. _she was so scared of it_. Dean rubs his eyes. 

‘Dean, maybe-’ Sam hesitates. Dean stares at him; for the first time during this questionable case, his brother looks really unsure. There’s something like - doubt? 

_fear?_

\- flickering across his face. 

‘Everything about this is off,’ Sam admits, and Dean feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest. Somehow, he’s exhilarated to hear that they might be ditching it and just getting in the Impala and driving away. ‘I just wanted - a case for us, together, and it seemed legit, coming from Bobby. Would’ve felt nice to help Frank, I guess,’ he glances at the well, somberly. 

‘Yeah, that train has left the station,’ Dean clasps a hand on the edge of the well. He remembers throwing a coin down there, and it must’ve sunk down next to Irene. Maybe even landed on her. The thought makes him shudder; it seems blasphemous, somehow. Dean’s seen his share of dead bodies, but it’s still not easy, having seen the cheery old grandma and now this, what’s left of her - hell of a compare and contrast, no thank you. 

‘So, Irene is dead,’ Sam scrubs a hand down his face. He looks so goddamn tired. ‘Who's responsible?'

In the following silence, Dean realizes Sam's not treating this as a hunt, but like a murder case.

'You're suggesting Frank,' he says slowly. 'You really think it's not the motel?' 

'I don't know,' Sam shrugs. 'Could be. Just doesn't feel that way, you know? Why Frank and his wife, why not - all the other people we saw at breakfast? Wouldn't it be just easier to kill us all as soon as we step inside?' 

'Maybe it likes to play,' Dean counters, and it makes him shudder. He thinks of his body in the well. Maybe it really does. 'But fine, I'll bite. If it was Frank - how did he do it? Murder? He wouldn't have stayed, then, he'd just bail, and he definitely wouldn't have made a deal out of it, called the cops, called us. Could've been an accident - well, maybe she fell in, but then the cops would've found her in the well, I'm sure they checked it out.' 

'Maybe he never called the cops. Maybe he called us cause he convinced himself he didn't do it. Easier to deal with an imaginary evil motel than his own guilt,' Sam sighs. 'You saw him, man. He looked out of it.' 

'Yeah, but-' Dean frowns. 'I don't know. When he grabbed me, he looked - _not_ crazy. And he's a hunter, Sam. Maybe we should give him the benefit of doubt.' 

Sam cocks his head. 

'You really think it could be the motel, don't you?' 

'Yeah,' Dean admits, his eyes straying to the inside of the well. 'I don't know, like you said, there's something off about this whole thing. Maybe Frank really saw something kill Irene. And _if_ he did, if he told us to find her, it's cause he couldn't do it himself.' 

'Cause it's too hard for him, or cause something's stopping him?' Sam asks.

Dean's glad that he doesn't brush it off; he’s thinking seriously about what Dean said, and that makes him feel more grounded. 

'Both, maybe?'

Sam looks past the well, at the desert. Dean wipes a hand over his forehead; it's so hot. 

'Let's go, huh?' he offers, wanting to get away from the well and the sun. 'Let's call the station and find out if any cops were even here. Then we can talk to Frank.' 

Sam nods and moves first, but then, Dean stops him with a hand on his arm. 

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘After this shit show, we’ll find another case, okay? Something classic. Werewolves, maybe? What do you say?’ 

Sam gives him a pale smile, but he seems pleasantly surprised. 

‘Sure, Dean,’ he replies. ‘Sounds good.’ 

Dean nods; that’s done then. He feels relieved that they’re on the same page, and relieved to have something to look forward to. They might be different, now, but maybe if they stick together, things will work out.

The cops know nothing about the motel. Sam calls the five closest towns - which aren't close at all - and the line for missing persons, where he asks for Irene. No one reported her as missing. 

Sam's brother is searching for something online when he hears the news. Dean grimaces, but looks like he expected it. Sam doesn't know what he saw in the well, but it rattled him. 

'No cops means Frank really believes it's the motel,' Dean says, putting the laptop aside. 'Problem is, is he right or is he crazy?' 

'Problem is he lied to us, Dean,' Sam picks a can from the cooler Dean brought from the car; he chooses a Big Red, hidden between the cokes and sprites. He can't help but feel thirsty, all the time, it's just so hot in the room. 'Why'd he tell us he called the cops if he didn't?' 

Dean groans. 

'I'm not saying he's _not_ crazy, okay? But _if_ he isn't, then I'm starting to feel like we're being set up, and I don't like it.' 

'He could be setting us up for a murder, you know,' Sam warns. 'Maybe he killed Irene and called us here, and wants us to be suspects.' 

'Yeah, right,' Dean scoffs. 'A week ago, we were in South Dakota. We have freaking witnesses. If Frank's plan is to have us convicted for killing Irene, that's the stupidest plan I've heard.' 

'I don't know, some of your plans were really out there,' Sam teases, and Dean throws a decorative pillow at him. 'Fine. I feel like we should confront Frank about it.' 

'Yeah,' Dean sighs. He seemed reluctant to be here from the start, but now, Sam's starting to think that he's also afraid. 'By the way, there's nothing about this motel online, you know?' 

'What are you talking about?' Sam frowns. 'I found the directions online.' 

'Oh yeah?' Dean pushes the laptop towards him. 'Have at it.' 

Sam pulls the laptop close and he types its name, location, searches browser history - there's nothing there. He even thinks back to his conversation with the police - they didn't seem to know the motel, had to look through the files to check if anyone had called from there. 

Frank wanted them to come, and the place wanted them to come, too. 

Sam takes his gun - just in case Frank's _really_ crazy, even though it's looking less plausible every second - and he leaves the room with Dean following. It's a short walk to Frank's door, and Sam knocks on it, wishing it were evening already and the relentless sun would be gone. 

The door opens when his fist hits it, and Sam tenses; unlocked and ajar, that's never a good sign. He pushes it open all the way.

'Frank?' he calls, but it quickly becomes evident that Frank’s not in his room. Sam stops in the middle of it; it’s still as wrecked as it was, but Frank’s bags are gone, no clothes, no personal belongings - no goodbye note. They don't know which car was Frank's, but they bet it's not in the parking lot, either. 

‘This is sketchy as fuck,’ Dean remarks, kicking a nightstand that’s been on the ground for God knows how long. _a week,_ Sam’s brain supplies. Frank saw Irene die, or he saw something evil happen, and he locked himself in and went crazy. Tried to destroy the room, or whatever killed his wife. Tried to - get out? 

_i just wanted to go home_

‘We should go,’ Sam says, suddenly feeling eerie. Like his limbs are going numb, like something’s under his skin, and it’s hard to breathe. ‘Dean, something’s not right.’ 

‘Yeah, no shit,’ Dean steps out of the room. ‘Come on.’ 

They walk back to their room, and there’s static in Sam’s ears, growing more and more insistent. He holds out a hand to grab the doorframe. It’s strange to experience such a strong feeling of _danger_ in daylight, with the sun beating on their backs and the stretches of desert around them, yellow and bleak and very real. Sam can feel the hot wind, he can smell the dusty scent of nature and the wooden porch and his own sweat. There’s no danger on the horizon, no danger he can see or hear. And yet, danger’s _here_. No doubt about that. The place really is evil, some way, somehow; and he doesn’t know how to fight it. 

‘Hey, you okay?’ Dean comes over and supports his weight. Sam’s grateful for it cause his vision grays out. It’s the sun, probably. 

Or the blood. 

He knows how Dean looks at him nowadays - like he’s a monster. Like everything he’s done up to this point, all the ways he’s proven himself, all the lives he’s saved - it doesn’t matter. Cause he’s using something _forbidden_ to have the upper hand, and to Dean’s black-and-white mind, that’s being the bad guy. Okay, fine. He can think whatever he wants cause Sam’s got this thing under control. Which doesn’t mean there’s no - need. No aching for it. Like now, when it steals his breath away and makes him feel dizzy, and his heart pounds. It’s been a hard few days, cause he hasn’t drunk in a while. He overdid it last time, but he’ll deal with it. He’ll only call Ruby once it’s absolutely necessary for him to use his powers. Not when the need just gets hard to bear. 

But Dean won’t believe him. Dean’s the strong brother, the _i just got out of Hell and am ready to roll_ brother. A nightmare here, a nightmare there, but no _depraved_ ways to stop the nightmares. Never for Dean. So, 

‘I’m okay,’ Sam tells him, and bats his hand away. ‘But this place - it’s all wrong. You feel it too?’

Dean looks uncertain. 

‘Not like that,’ he admits. ‘Not in any sixth sense way, but uh, yeah, having seen Irene and not having seen Frank, I’d say the situation is pretty fucked. Come sit down before you pass out.' 

Sam lets Dean maneuver him into their room and onto the nearest bed. His head is still pounding, and Dean holds an ice-cold can to his forehead.

'I'm calling Bobby,' he says, and Sam doesn't comment, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He hears his brother dial the number, wait, and then greet Bobby grumpily. He listens as Dean tells him about Irene in the well, and about Frank's weird behavior, his theory, and his disappearance. 

'Feels like we're being set up,' Dean talks. 'But for what? You know any evil motel lore?' 

Sam lies on the bed. He can feel Dean's worried glances. He's feeling better already, but it's hard to think, his mind working sluggishly. He can't tell if his strange reaction to Frank's empty room had anything to do with this place. It might be that his need to meet up with Ruby is a bit more persistent than he anticipated. Or it might be the sun - they did stand outside for a while, and the heat is unbearable. Could it have been such an intense reaction to whatever's in these walls, the - the evil, like Frank said? It didn't affect Dean the same way, but it did show him something in the well. Or maybe it's cause Sam's psychic and already has some evil flowing in his veins. 

Beasts of the same kind, he thinks, and he doesn't like it. 

Annoyed, he huffs and turns to his side. 

'Hey,' Dean says, and slaps his leg. 'Feelin' any better?' 

'Sort of,' Sam replies, trying to sit up, even though he didn't even notice when Dean finished talking to Bobby. 'Must've been the sun.' 

'Yeah,' Dean nods, chewing his lip and staring at him just a bit too long. Sam feels irritation prickle at him, and he gets ready for a fight, but then, Dean sinks down onto the bed next to him with beer in hand. 'Bobby said he'll look into it, but he's never heard of an entire motel being - well, evil. He said he'll come over if it gets intense.' 

'I hope you told him to stay away,' Sam raises his gaze to look at Dean, who just rolls his eyes. 

'Course I did, I'm not an idiot. But he did tell me something interesting,' Dean pauses to drink some beer, and Sam's patience is wearing thin. 'Apparently, Frank worked a job in the 90s. Started out as a regular vamp hunt, but the vamps caught him and held him captive for a month or so. He was only let out when he called other guys for help and let the vamps have them. Lured them in, you might say.’ Dean quirks an eyebrow at Sam. ‘It ruined him, Bobby said. Knowing others got hurt cause of him.’ 

'Huh,' Sam says, considering it. 'Great.' Just like Frank lured them, and was freed. 'You think it means he was trapped inside his room?' 

'Makes sense,' Dean shrugs. 'He did look like he was trying to claw his way out. Also explains why he called us, not the police, and why he could never get to Irene. Hell, I'd want someone to find you if you drowned, as well.' 

Sam snorts. 'That's touching, thanks. Okay, so what does the motel want?' 

'More souls?' Dean suggests. 'Food delivery to your doorstep. Literally.' 

'I don't know,' Sam grimaces. 'It's not like it's done anything to us, so far.'

He tries to get up, reach the laptop, but his vision swims again.

'Hey,' Dean grabs him and guides him back down. 'Take a nap, huh? The - uh, sun, really did a number on you. I'll keep digging.' 

'Should we even be here?' Sam protests, but he's already lying down. 'If the place is dangerous-' 

'Maybe only to Frank. We know nothing so far, and what else can we do? Drive away? We can't leave the rest of these people.' 

Sam nods, tiredly, and drifts off to sleep. 

The fan is whirring softly overhead. Dean rests his bare feet on the cool wooden floorboards, but he keeps the back door open. He doesn't wanna get trapped like Frank, so he props it open with a chair, but that does let in the heat. 

There are no answers online. He looks and looks and there's nothing. He reads article after article, finds a promising forum about people going missing in a motel only to find out it’s a UFO situation; finds something good about a well, a girl who drowned, but it turns out to be the plot of The Ring. Sam sleeps on the bed, soundlessly. Was it a heatstroke, or something else? Is he tuned in to monster radio, like back in the day? Or is the motel just messing with him? 

Dean sighs and tips his head back. Taking this case was a mistake. 

He can't figure out what is the deal with this place, the missing link between Irene and Frank, the main theme of this tourist trap. Irene drowned. Scared of - water, probably, couldn't swim. Frank escaped. Traumatized by orchestrating an exchange with the vamps, and now he's brought Sam and Dean to find Irene's corpse - to deal with the evil motel - to become the next victims? Having heard about Frank's previous endeavours, Dean's inclined to believe it's not a coincidence Frank only fed them bite-sized info and fled as soon as he could. Deep down, Dean feels that they're next. But it would help if he actually knew what they're up against. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean notices something bright. He turns his head to look through the back door. The well - it’s glowing. Dean leaves the laptop and gets up, and hovers near the entrance, holding his gun. The well is still blue, but now, it's like the color's pulsing, growing so bright, it's almost hard to look at, and then dimming again. To the beat of - Dean's heart. Dean can feel it now, speeding up in his chest, loud in his ears, and the well accommodates the pace like a giant heart monitor in the middle of the desert. 

'Sam,' Dean says, but it comes out quiet, weak. There's an arm - an arm shooting up from the bowels of the well. It grabs the ledge and hoists itself up. A body falls out, and crawls, and Dean looks on, because it's him, again, dead and bloated and dragging himself across the plane. 

Dean could shoot, but he feels like he'd be shooting thin air. It's - making him see things. Making him see - his dead twin stagger, get up. Take trembling, heavy steps forward. Grip a bloodied knife in his hand, pliers in the other. 

'What are you?!' Dean yells, hoping to sound pissed and not scared. 'What do you want from us?!'

His copy doesn't answer. It approaches, feet dragging, face so disfigured, Dean doesn't want to look at it, it's disgusting. 

Sam doesn't budge, and Dean slams the back door shut, and locks it. There’s a window in it, providing him with a view. The dead Dean stops next to it. Dean's not sure if he - it - can even speak, the state it's in, but it does smile, and it looks gruesome. 

'Fuck off,' Dean says, voice trembling, because this is wrong. He can't fight something that's not real, and this isn't, it can't be. It feels like a fever dream. He glances up and sees that the fan’s stopped spinning, frozen. He bets all the clocks are stuck, too. 

His clone knocks on the door with the pliers. 

'Had to -' it rasps, it's low and gurgling and full of effort, but it's Dean's voice. 'Had to cut - my way through-' 

Through what? Dean's eyes flick back to the well. There's nothing there, but it's still glowing, like some sick algae. Maybe they all drank some funny water from the well, and that's why they're seeing things. Maybe- 

'Like we - used to,' the dead Dean tells him, and Dean understands. He'd done his share of cutting and slicing before, but this place - it can't know about his time in Hell. No one knows about it. The empty green eyes stare back at him, the smile - his mouth, his lips, his teeth - all of it, already dead. This used to be him, just a couple months ago, and suddenly, there's fear, choking him, cause he believes that's how he'll end up. The pliers keep knocking on the door, setting a steady, chilling rhythm, metallic _clang, clang, clang._ This is their last case, and somehow, he'll find his way down the well. That's where he'll end up. Serves him right for what he's done, he thinks bitterly, but he still doesn't want to go back to Hell. He can't - if that happens, he's not gonna take it, he just won't-

Sam pats Dean on the shoulder. 

'Dean,' he says. His brother fell asleep, head at a weird angle, laptop next to him on the bedding. The back door is closed, cutting off the heat, and it’s easier to stand the weather. 'Dean, wake up.' 

His brother jerks away, and for a moment, his face is a mask of pure fear. 

'Sam-' he starts, and then looks at the back door. Through the window, both brothers can see the well, a blue spot on the horizon. 'You closed the door?' 

'No,' Sam shakes his head. 'Why? It's hot out, why-' 

'Fuck,' Dean tumbles from the bed and hurries to the door, and tries the doorknob. It rotates, but doesn't open. 'Fuck!' 

There's teary desperation in Dean's voice, but Sam's more concerned about the fact that the door is closed. He tries the front door, even though it feels like a formality at this point; they know what's going on. They've been too slow, and now they're locked in. At least Bobby knows about us, Sam thinks, and it calms him down some. Dean's not taking it that well, though.

‘Son of a _bitch_ ,’ he swears, and takes out his gun. 

‘No,’ Sam protests, and grabs it from his hands. ‘What if it won’t go through and just hits us back?’ 

‘At least it’ll hurt this fucker!’ Dean says, and kicks the door, hard. It doesn’t budge. Dean lets out a frustrated yell and wrestles with the doorknob, and then throws his body against it. Sam puts the gun away. He tries the bathroom, but that won't open, either. That’s surprising. There was no window in the bathroom, no means of escape. 

‘Hey,’ he calls to Dean, who’s taken a break from attacking the door and is massaging his sore shoulder. ‘The bathroom’s locked too.’ 

‘Great!’ Dean throws his hands up. His voice comes out a bit hysterical. ‘So now I gotta piss here, as well?! Who runs this place?!' 

‘Maybe the receptionist,’ Sam sighs, and sits down by the table. ‘Come on, let’s figure it out.’ 

Dean huffs. Sam feels his irritation flare. Why is Dean reacting like this? He’s standing by the door, hands bunched into fists, like he’s ready for a fight, like he’s full of anger and adrenaline. It’s Sam who’ll need to get out, suddenly feeling panicked at the idea of not being able to meet Ruby. If they’re shut in here, if there’s no one to come and save them, and his hunger will grow stronger and stronger-

No. He knows how to deal with it, he already decided he’s dealing with it. He cuts off that train of thought, squashes the panic. Instead, he looks for a pen and a notepad. He writes down: 

_Let’s use this in case it can hear us._

Dean finally slumps in the chair facing him, but he looks jittery and uneasy. Sam regards him closely. They’ve been through many situations like these, and confinement isn’t one of Dean’s fears. Planes, rats, that’s what Sam knows his brother’s scared of. But this - seeing Dean’s fingers flex on the table, he thinks maybe Dean’s acquired a new fear since he was gone. Maybe he’s not so keen on restrictive spaces since he woke up in a decomposing coffin underground and had to crawl out of his own grave. Or maybe it's the motel, toying with him, with both of them. 

Suddenly, Sam’s happy that Dean’s here with him. Just a month ago, he thought he’d never get to see him again. This would have been impossible, hunting together, even in a creepy, elusive scenario like this one, and he doesn’t want to take it for granted. If he has to be confident for Dean, encourage him, he’ll do it, no problem. 

'Did you have a nightmare?' he asks, but Dean just glares. 'You seemed pretty spooked.'

'Didn't mean to nap,' Dean grumbles. 

'It could be important,' Sam insists. 'Did this place - did it make you see something-' 

'No,' Dean cuts him off too quickly, so quickly that they both know the real answer. 'It was just a nightmare, Sam.' 

Judging by the look on Dean's face, it was much more than that, but he's definitely not in the sharing mood.

‘It's fine. We’ll get out of here,’ Sam tells his brother, whose eyes are darting around the room. ‘What’s a place like this to guys like us, huh?’ 

Dean flashes him an unconvincing smile. 

‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘Messed with the wrong tourists.’ 

‘I mean it,’ Sam says. It hurts him to see Dean so scared. Maybe - most likely - Hell left more of a mark on him than he cares to admit, even if he doesn’t remember his time there. 

Dean sighs. 

‘Sure, Sammy,’ he nods, and takes the notepad from him. ‘Okay, let’s do this.’ 

He writes _frank was trapped like us - now he’s gone cause he invited us here?_

_An exchange?_ Sam suggests, jotting it down and pushing the pad back to Dean. Dean tilts his head in consideration. 

_This place takes one person, leaves the other alive to swap for a new set of souls?_

Dean clearly doesn’t like that. He grimaces, but doesn’t seem to come up with another idea. 

_what does that?_ he asks. Then, he writes down a list of suggestions. They rule out ghosts - it could be a ghost possessing the motel, technically, but it’d have to be very powerful to keep people locked inside. _maybe it’s lots of ghosts,_ Dean suggests. A motel built on a graveyard, or something. It’s possible, Sam admits. He takes out the EMF meter and turns it on. Dean stares at it expectantly but it doesn’t light up, not even one bar. They’ve not been cold once during their stay, no static on TV, none of the usual signs. Dean crosses ghosts out from the list. 

They go through all the supernatural beings they know. They’re not sure if any demons could run a schtick like this one, collecting visitors’ souls. But only crossroads demons need souls, and Sam and Dean haven’t been offered any kind of deal. Dean proposes a rogue reaper, but it doesn’t convince either of them. Sam thinks about djinns, but when Dean last experienced it, he was taken to a dream world, and this - this is far from the perfect setup. 

_there’s too much we don’t know_ , Dean writes, sullenly. _we just learned angels exist._

Sam taps the pen against the notepad, out of ideas for a moment. They need to figure out how to get out. Even if they don't guess what it is exactly, they need to guess how to beat it. 

_we know someone can survive,_ Sam writes. _it let Frank go, so there's a way._

'I have a theory,' Dean says, out loud. Sam watches him carefully; it must mean he decided to face this thing head-on. 'I think there’s a connection between Irene being scared of water and drowning, and Frank succeeding in calling us here and being set free. I think it's like - a challenge.' 

'A challenge?' Sam frowns. 'Irene failed and drowned, Frank called us and could leave?'

'Yeah,' Dean nods, looking triumphant. 'We do know Irene was afraid of water and she died in it. We also know Frank was afraid of hurting other people like back with the vamps, and he did it to us, and he was free to go. He won the challenge, you know? I think this shit Hotel California wannabe wants us to face our fears.’ 

‘It might hear you, you know,’ Sam warns, all secrecy gone now. But Dean’s right, they don’t know what it is or how to fight it, so there’s nothing to hide. If they show that they know the rules of the game, if it wants them to face their fears - it can get on with it, and they can go home. 

‘Oh I hope it does,’ Dean replies with a sneer. ‘Zero stars!’ 

‘So you think it feeds on fear?’ Sam’s not fully convinced. It sounds logical, what Dean’s saying; maybe Irene was going through a sort of trial, and failed. Maybe she refused to attempt to face the fear. But she died, and Frank was left alone in the room, knowing what happened to her; knowing that the only way to get out would be to find people naive enough to come visit him this far away from civilization. People like Sam and Dean. 

‘I don’t care,’ Dean shrugs. ‘If it means I have to take a plunge into a bathtub full of rats, so be it. I’m getting cabin fever, Sam.’ 

Sam’s not as enthusiastic about facing his fears; he doesn’t even know what that would be. Dean choking on his own blood, torn to shreds by hellhounds, probably. That’s a constant hit. There’s not been a day Sam’s gone by without reliving it, like it’s burnt itself onto his retinas. Yeah, something to do with Dean, most likely. 

‘Ready to visit Ronald McDonald?’ Dean asks, clapping him on the shoulder. Sam snorts, his mouth curving into a smile. _i missed you_ , he wants to say. Dean hands him his knife and his gun. It occurs to Sam that he expects them to be separated at some point, and that he’s preparing for action. 

‘So what, we’re just gonna wait?’ Sam questions. ‘It might take days.' 

Right on cue, the light goes out. All of it; the light outside, the light inside, like the entire world is bathed in darkness. 

'Sam!' 

'I'm here,' Sam reaches out blindly, and grabs Dean's hand. The table is still there; everything is still the same, but completely dark. 'I think-' 

'I'll try and turn on the light,' Dean says, and Sam can hear him stumble around the room and feel for the light switch. 

'Here,' he announces, and flicks it. Sam squints as the world goes back to normal; the sun streams through the windows, the room is bright like it always is during the day. Except now, the walls are covered in writing. It's a number. 

'I hate this,' Dean snaps. 'I _hate_ it.' 

'You were right,' Sam says, getting up to stare at the numbers. 434343434, endless, wrapping around the corners, diving under the beds. 'It does want to play a game with us.'

'For once, I wish I wasn't right all the time,' Dean sighs. 'What's it mean?' 

'I don't know. Three and four, or four and three. Our room number's 35, so it doesn't fit, but-'

'Hey,' Dean looks at him, eyes lighting up. '34.' 

'What about it?' Sam frowns. 

'That was, uh,' Dean walks up to the trashcan. 'The number of the last room we were staying in. The flamingo motel.' 

'Oh,' Sam says, and remembers, and it makes something unpleasant coil in his stomach. The extra key Dean found in the duffel. The motel knew they were coming, that long ago.

Now, Dean fishes out the key card from the trash.

'The room before us is 33. Guess 34 would be right about here-’ 

Sam gets up and stands in front of the bathroom door, next to Dean. That’s the most plausible conclusion; why else would the bathroom be closed? It’s literally between their room and their neighbors’ room, the perfect location for number 34. Sam’s hand sweats on the handle of his gun. Is it facing his fear if he kills whatever attacks him? What if it’s not imaginary, but real? 

There's a card slot in the bathroom door that wasn't there before. 

'So it wants us to enter the invisible playroom between the rooms,' Dean muses, staring at the card. 'Fine, let's play.' 

‘Dean,’ Sam says quietly. ‘We don’t know the rules.’ 

Dean looks back at him, and for the first time in a while, he looks like himself. It feels like reassurance but also sadness; Sam’s incorrigible, crazy brother, always feeling the best when he’s in the middle of a fight, with something to punch. Dean smiles, green eyes sparkling teasingly. Sam smiles back. There’s that thrill. Sam’s surprised to realize he missed it. 

‘We’re gonna have to wing it,’ Dean concludes, and swipes the card, and opens the door. 

It just looks like their bathroom. The shower, the sink, the toilet, their damp towels and the blue tiles. Sam frowns; Dean steps inside first, and Sam can see him stopping in the center, looking around expectantly, so Sam steps over the threshold and he’s 

Inside a gas station. 

Sam blinks and stumbles, bewildered. The station’s large, empty and painfully white. White floor, white ceiling and plastic soda bottles, lining up the white shelves in perfect order. Sam grips his gun tighter and slowly inches forward. There’s no clerk, and outside, he can see the Impala - but no Dean. A dog barks somewhere, and Sam startles. The hounds? Filled with a sick feeling, Sam approaches the counter. He thinks he knows what he’ll find behind it; Dean’s body, and there’ll be nothing he’ll be able to do to save him. His gut twisting, he rounds the corner. 

The floor is empty.

Confused, Sam lowers his gun and gazes around the station. It seems still, like time has frozen, but the tall refrigerators are humming restlessly, and the air-conditioning works. Sam picks up one of the bottles standing so impeccably on the shelves, and suddenly, he knows. 

The liquid is red, thick and dark. It leaves a film on the inside of the bottle when Sam puts it back. He walks up to the transparent fridges, feeling dazed; cans, bottles, boxes of blood. He doesn’t need to uncap it and sniff it to know what it is; it calls to him. His pulse speeds up and he takes a shaky step back. It’s just his body. He knows, he knows this isn’t even real. And if it were, he has control over it. 

He slams open the door and runs outside. It’s easier to breathe, here, but the place didn’t try to stop him, and that’s wrong. Everything’s too quiet. The Impala’s empty; no Dean. He must’ve stayed back at the motel, and Sam can see it, far away in the distance, the blue spot on the horizon - the well - next to the building. 

When he opens the door to the car, the key is in the ignition. Dean would never let anyone take it. Is this Impala even real? Experimentally, Sam turns the key, but the car doesn’t start. The dash helpfully informs him that there’s no gas. 

How convenient, Sam thinks, looking at the self-service pumps to his right. The motel must want him to fill up the car. The distributors look like the ones they saw when they reached the motel last night, except now, the distance between them and the building seems to be a hundred times bigger. 

‘Fine,’ Sam mutters, and gets out. There’s no other way around it. He unhooks the pump and presses the button on the display, hoping he won’t have to fetch his credit card, which is back in the motel room. Would be a dick move, really, for the evil motel that’s keeping him captive to require dollars on top of everything else. 

The gas starts flowing, though, slowly, and Sam surveys the surroundings once more. He feels under observation, he feels like he’s an ant under a magnifying glass, some sinister ray of light focused solely on him, watching all his actions. There must be something coming, this is too easy, but Sam doesn’t know _what_. He worries about Dean. He can’t lose him again, not now, and once again, he wonders if Dean’s theory is true. What if he’s the Irene of their pair, and Sam’s Frank? What if Dean dies no matter what, cause the motel needs victims, souls, whatever; what if Sam is set free once he confronts whatever fear this is, but Dean isn't? 

_you know what this is,_ he thinks. _you know what it wants you to do._

_i don’t,_ Sam tries to convince himself. It’s futile, and, as if to confirm that, gas spills from the Impala’s tank, running down the side and onto Sam’s shoes. It’s red and thick, and not gas at all. 

The display behind him lights up, the machine whirring, the big screen blindingly white with one single, blinking message. Take a sip. Take a sip. Take a sip. 

Sam backs away from it, his back hitting the Impala. The blood - demon, demon blood - flows from the hose, from the tank, down the polished black door. Dean’s going to kill him for messing up his car, Sam thinks, eyes zeroed in on the liquid, the - the drink. The urge grows inside him, eats at him, unbearable, his mouth waters. He has to do it. Just a sip, it said. The relief that would come - the power. No more fear. 

Dean’s face comes to his mind, unbidden; the twisted sneer, the disgust in his eyes when he found Sam exorcising a demon with Ruby. The punches that came later, punches he didn’t deserve.

He’s not gonna give Dean the satisfaction. 

He takes a few unsteady steps, away from the blood and the mocking display. That thought was toxic, it’s not his motivation; he won’t drink the blood because he’s not an addict. Dean’s not his enemy, they’re on the same side, always have been. Maybe the motel is already playing with his mind, he thinks, stubbornly marching towards the building. He’ll get there on foot, without a vehicle and without any… enhancements. 

He can’t gauge the distance. It starts to look like a mirage, rippling in the heat, less and less real with each step. He wonders if Dean’s at the same station, but flipped, mirrored; he wonders what the motel wants him to do. The dust swirls around his boots, but the road seems even longer than before, it’s stretching like a rubber band. Sam’s sweating and his vision is swimming. Has he been walking a minute, an hour, a day? There are no animals, no plants, just the relentless sun and the empty desert. Nothing _alive_ , besides him. What about the bark he heard before? Maybe the hellhound was inside the Impala, waiting for him to start the car and devour him. Maybe that’s the next fear to fight, after drinking the blood. Suddenly feeling eyes on his back, Sam turns around, and finds himself mere centimeters from the front of the car. 

All this time, he’s been walking in place, he hasn’t moved an inch. There’s no way of getting back to the motel if he doesn’t play by its rules. Sam stares at the forever-distant spot on the otherwise clear horizon, face contorted in frustration and anger. He whirls around and storms into the gas station, and tries the door he came through. It’s just a regular bathroom. The portal, or whatever it was, was one-way only. 

There’s nothing else coming, no dogs, no traps. It’s just Sam, the Impala, and a lifetime supply of demon blood. 

He could fight it, he thinks. The Impala should have the weapons in the trunk. He could blow up the station, but it might just leave him stranded, trapped here for eternity. And is it really so bad, just drinking some of the blood? He’s done it before. It’s not going to feel like confronting his fear, but like relief. 

Dean might never even get to know, Sam reasons with himself. There might be no huge argument afterwards, no more hurtful words to feed his guilty conscience. He should hurry. His brother might be in serious danger, and all Sam has to do is take a drink. 

He goes outside again, next to the Impala. He looks at the hose. It drips with blood, enticingly. His favourite on tap. Sam cups his hand and puts it under the hose. The blood gathers in his palm, thick. It’s been so long, Sam thinks, it’s been too long. He deserves something good, sometimes, too. He puts the palm to his mouth and tips it back. The flavour bursts on his tongue, his veins instantly on fire. He feels energized, he feels alive, and most of all, relieved. The pump turns on and more blood flows from the hose, and Sam fills his hands with another portion, and another, and another. He wishes he could bathe in it. It makes him feel like he’s in control again. Forget this motel; no demon is ever gonna stand in his way again, no one is going to harm anyone he cares about. Mom, dad - and now Dean - he draws a line at Dean. Sam’s coming to face them, and this time, he’s ready, and they’re in for a nasty surprise, he thinks and a laugh bubbles up in his throat. Blood spills down his chin, and he laughs loudly, let them come. Let them all come. Dean’s going to thank him once it’s done, and they’re free. Sam drinks and drinks, imagining it, and he feels too big for his body. He catches a glimpse of himself in the metal case of the gas distributor, and he freezes.

His face is looking back at him, smeared with blood, eyes large and… lust-blown. Lust for power. The blood is on his hands, it’s on his shirt, on his cheeks and chin and neck, he’s covered in it. He drank too much, God, how much has he drunk? He jerks away from the hose, wipes his hands on the ground. He no longer feels hungry, he feels sick, his body is thrumming with power but it feels corrupted, twisted. Choking on a helpless sob, Sam wipes his face with a sleeve. He has to get out of here. He has to get out of here. 

He gets up on shaky legs, and freezes in horror. The hose is spilling gasoline, there are pools of it, oily and yellow. Gas. Did he drink gas? Did - all that time, was he drinking - 

The smell of it, the look of it makes him nauseous. His body is strung tight with terror, feeling poisoned and flammable. He’s probably dying. It made him think he was drinking blood but it wasn’t blood, and now - he’s the Irene of the two. He’s the one who’s going to die. 

He gets behind the wheel and turns the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life. The tank is full. Of course it is, Sam thinks, feeling hysterical, he just filled it up. He laughs as he drives forward, leaving the gas station in the rearview mirror. He feels powerful, and he feels terrified. Whatever he drank, it’s inside him, and it’s both tainted and potent. His own kind of gasoline to keep him going. 

Suddenly, the car slows down. Sam frowns and steps on the gas pedal, only to find that it's blocked - no. It's his foot that won't move forward, as if some invisible force is stopping him from driving. The Impala crawls forward, only to come to a halt, and when Sam glances up, he sees the immortal gas distributors in the rearview mirror. He's back at the gas station. 

He forces himself to think it through, still feeling demon blood - gasoline? - running through his body. It seems that Dean's theory was wrong. He caved, he did the humiliating, potentially lethal thing it wanted him to do, and yet - he wasn't freed. It's like it's playing with him, leading him on, letting him believe he's got the upper hand only to bring him back to the starting point. Maybe there's no escaping it, just being baited. But this time, Sam's no longer afraid. With each passing minute, he feels more and more - invincible. He thinks he does have the upper hand, and he thinks it's about time he showed it. 

He presses on the pedal, and again, his foot meets the barrier, it feels like fullness and stillness in the air, it feels unbreakable. Is it, though? Sam thinks, feeling a smile appear on his face. His hands tighten on the wheel. He thinks of Dean, alone back at the motel room - thinks of his face when he saw whatever it was in the well. Thinks of his desperation when they were trapped. Thinks of the haunted, scared look his brother was wearing, and the unfairness of it turns to rage. A motel. As if they hadn't fought demons and werewolves and vampires, and come out unscathed. Really, the entitlement of this place, Sam thinks, almost amused by it, now. Doesn't it know who it's messing with? 

Power sings in Sam's bones; he pushes his foot against the motel's force, and breaks it as if he were snapping a twig. The Impala's windows explode. Glass sparkles in the air, lands on the ground and in Sam's lap, and the car shoots forward. Sam's jostled by the speed, the abruptness of it. He won. 

The motel approaches slowly, no longer unreachable, and the station stays behind, obediently. That's right, Sam thinks, but he's growing tired, the rush gone. He can’t forget the image he saw in the makeshift mirror of the gas distributor. Himself, debased, gorging on the blood without any restraint. It might've saved his life now, made the motel lose its own game, but the fact remains - Sam gave in, and he couldn't stop. It feels like a prophecy. It feels like something unavoidable, like something that already happened in the future and in the past, a never-ending cycle he can’t break free from. This is everything he promised himself he would never be. This is what was done to him when he was six months old, when he was twenty-four years old, moments ago. This is what will always happen to him. Hell’s boyking, turned into an addict, turned into a monster. 

When Dean opens the door with the mysterious key card, he finds himself in their motel bathroom. He looks around for Sam, but his brother’s gone, and the door slams shut. Of fucking course. 

Dean pounds on it, uselessly, for a good minute. Sam doesn’t respond. He must be somewhere else, or _hurt_. Dean decides to explore the tiny room, hoping for answers, hoping for a goddamn escape. 

There’s a shower, there’s a sink, there’s a toilet. Nothing more. No tiny windows, nowhere to go. What is he supposed to do? He stares at himself in the mirror above the sink, eyes wide and wild, and suddenly, everything goes dark. 

He holds the gun tightly, his breath so loud in the small space, he can’t hear anything but himself. Instead of being attacked from behind, he’s submerged under a spotlight, blinding with its ferocity. He shields his eyes with his hand and looks up. There’s no way to tell where it’s coming from, but it’s pointing at him. Like there’s an audience watching, and all of a sudden, Dean feels like it is, like the tiled walls hidden in the darkness were replaced by whatever is running this place. Except multiplied. Dozens, hundreds of curious eyes, of salivating mouths, waiting for him to perform. Perform what? 

As if hearing his thoughts, the spotlight moves to the shower. The curtain pulls back slowly, and Dean tenses, waiting for something to pounce, but whoever’s inside, they’re dead. A man with his throat cut, blood drying on his neck. It’s a fresh kill; Dean thinks he’d still be warm, if Dean were to touch him. But what is it all about? He doesn’t even know the guy. He’s lost, but then, he sees a row of tools, neatly laid out at the man’s feet. Two knives, some pliers, what looks like a machete- 

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Nu-uh.’ 

He tries the door, again, fumbling for the handle in the dark. It won’t open. He has to hold onto it and think, because this - this place, this thing, it knows what he’s done. It knows what he won’t admit to anyone, not even himself. The torture, and what he felt during it. What he felt as an apprentice. 

_had to cut my way through._

The spotlight stays on the body in the shower, relentless and waiting. Dean can feel the anticipation in the air. There’s no getting out, not unless he cuts into this man - for what? His own humiliation? He’s already dead, it’s not like he’ll spill some secret once Dean starts in on him. 

_had to cut my way through, like we used to._

But Dean won’t. If they want him to starve here, he will. He got out of Hell and he was given a new chance, a new life - even if he didn’t deserve it. He’s not gonna do it again, not for anything. 

As if the motel can hear his thoughts, there’s a scream piercing the silence. It’s Sam’s.

‘Dean!’ the desperation and fear in it make Dean scramble for the door, uselessly. It’s definitely on the other side. ‘Help!’ 

‘Sammy!’ he yells back, kicking the door. ‘It won’t open!’ 

‘Dean, I-’ Sam screams again but it’s cut off in a painful way, and Dean shuts his eyes, furious and panicked. He knows it’s a trick, it’s gotta be. _But what if it isn’t?_ What if Sam’s the Irene of the two of them, getting killed if Dean doesn’t complete his task on time? What if he was wrong about the fear thing and Sam dies no matter what, and he only gets free if he confronts his fear of… being a good torturer? It draws a short, dry laugh from him. 

‘This is what you want?’ he says, and the room doesn’t reply. ‘You sick fuck, you’ll get it.’ He strides to the shower, grabs the nearest knife and, closing his eyes, cuts across the man’s stomach. 

The _dead man_ gives an awful cry, eyes fluttering open, and starts choking. Dean flinches, opens his eyes and stares at him, shocked. The man opens his mouth, horrible, gurgling sounds coming from his throat, and Dean can see something shiny and yellow. An old fashioned key. He lifts the knife, lifts his hands, and the man closes his mouth and his eyes and slumps back against the wall, like he’s a doll. 

‘Fuck,’ Dean says, voice brimming with misery and dread. He’s supposed to cut into this man until he coughs up the key. He’s supposed to torture him into setting him free. His hands are shaking and he sits back on the floor, and drops the knife. As soon as he does, Sam starts screaming in the other room. Horrible, horrible things. _you left me again. you called me a monster, and this is what you’ve been doing in Hell. you should’ve been left there to rot. what would dad think if he saw you now._ It’s louder and louder, a cacophony of hurt and disappointment, and Dean covers his ears like a child and waits for it to pass in the dark. 

At least now he knows it’s not really Sam on the other side of the door. Or isn’t it? Can he really risk that? He imagines finally coming out of this room to find Sam dead on the floor, like in Cold Oak. There’d be no new deals to save his life. Or maybe Sam’s okay, maybe he already fought his own metaphorical demons. Maybe he’s free, and Dean’s Irene. Startled, he recalls his body floating in the well. He’s _definitely_ Irene. He doesn’t want to die, not again, he can’t - he can’t go back there. What’s a little cutting into a dead, an already dead body, if it means he won’t have to do it all over again in the pit? If it means it won’t be done to him? 

He’s scared. His heart is jackrabbiting in his chest. He doesn’t want to go back, not ever, he wants to hold onto whatever piece of humanity Castiel saw clinging to him. Surely if he saw him now, he’d throw him right back in. But he doesn’t have to know. None of them have to know. Just a couple of cuts and freedom, and saving people, and being better. No more fucked up cases like this one. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there in the dark, curled on the floor. It’s probably the motel’s influence, but all he can think about is his body in the well, those empty eyes. At some point, he’s sure that it’s a matter of keep living or go back to Hell, and that’s no choice at all. Besides, Sam really might need help, but that’s a distant thought now. Dean’s selfish, he’s as selfish as he’s ever been, he’s stripped of everything but his instinct to survive. So he picks up the knife, and he cuts. The man makes ugly, hideous sounds; cries, sobs, screams, whimpers. Dean doesn’t stop. He cuts his stomach open, and he takes the pliers, and grabs whatever’s nearest, and pulls. He doesn’t know how long it goes on, until his arms are covered in blood all the way to his shoulders, until he finally notices the key already resting on the man’s chest next to him.

He should’ve been done already. It was like a trance, and now, staring at his hands deep inside the man, a wounded sound tears from Dean’s throat. He’s done it again. 

The pliers and the knife are dropped on the floor, next to his trembling form. He picks up the key, slippery in his hands, and turns on the faucet in the sink. He doesn’t look in the mirror, even though the bathroom is lit, now, the lightbulb overhead working as usual. He didn’t notice when it happened. He washes his hands in the water, red red red. He washes the key; it looks antique. He doesn’t look at the man until he absolutely has to. Just a glance, expecting a bloodbath, but he’s whole. The same dead body Dean saw at the start, the only wound being the gash across his throat. Dean stares at him until his eyes burn. The man opens his eyes and smiles slowly, it grows bigger and bigger, until it’s unnatural. He doesn’t move otherwise. 

Dean turns his back on him, his breath coming out in pants. He wants to put the key in the lock, except - there's no lock, not like this, only the automatic slot for a key card. Dean hears heavy footsteps behind his back, closer and closer. The key won't fit. All of it for nothing, it was - it was just a joke, and this is the punchline, he's going to die after all, he's going to die and go back to Hell - the footsteps are right behind him, the corpse grabs him by the shoulder, and Dean makes a panicked sound and 

He’s wrenched forward, violently. He falls to his knees on the bare floorboards, back in the motel room, and the front door is open. 

'You okay?' 

It's Sam. There’s blood on his shirt and hands, mirroring Dean’s. He looks haunted, face white. 

'I don't-' Dean starts, looking around. The motel is a wreck. Only the bare bones of it, the wooden structure, patches of wooden floorboards, bleached and sun-dried. The room Dean's kneeling in, there are two rusty bed frames and rotten mattresses. The fans, the chairs, the table all look dilapidated and ready to fall apart, years old. There's no roof; there are no doors and no windows. It's like they're scooped up in the mouth of a monster, its wooden teeth shooting into the sky, the only remnants of walls. Dean can see the front of the building and the end of the building from here; other ruined rooms. No one's been here in ages; the motel collapsed or burned down around the time Dean was born, from the looks of it. 

Have they been sleeping in those beds? What have they eaten? Dean glances behind himself, mouth twisted in disgust; there's no one there, in the bathroom. There's no door to the bathroom. He was only trapped in his own head. 

'Was any of it real?' Dean asks, throat dry. Sam helps him up. The blood on their hands, that's real. 'God, I need a shower.' 

'You were just standing there,' Sam tells him, looking sympathetic and worried. 'Behind the threshold, and you looked like-' 

'It was gonna kill me,' Dean replies off-handedly. 'That stresses a guy out.' 

'What was?' 

'A - a corpse, I guess. A live corpse,' Dean touches his shoulder. It's bleeding - four diagonal gashes, where the thing scratched him. Sam sees it too.

'I've never seen anything like it, this place, it's-' Sam trails off, struggling for words. 'I've been at the gas station, with the car. Except it was miles from here, and wouldn't let me go.' 

'Huh,' Dean shakes his head. 'How did you get out? Cause if you hadn't grabbed me, man, I don't know if I-' 

'I just kept driving,' Sam shrugs. 'I kept - fighting it, and I could feel it break.' 

Dean doesn't know what that means. He doesn't think he got anywhere close to breaking the thing. He clears his throat. 

'Where are all the others?' he asks. 

Sam points to the well, looking incredibly sorrowful. Dean follows his gaze, and he's heading there before he knows what he's doing. There are bodies spilling from the well. There's no other word for it. As they get closer, they can see skeletons deeper in the well, but the bodies on top, they're fresh corpses. Irene. Frank. Dean's fists clench as he sees it, instinctively looking for his own face in the crowd of cadavers. Instead of himself, he finds the guy he was just cutting into. He looks a couple days dead. There's a cut across his throat. Dean takes a step back. 

'How do we kill it?' he asks, his voice raspy. Sam stands a few steps behind. 

'I think we should burn it,' Sam replies. 'I don't - feel it. It feels real, now, don't you think?' 

'I guess,' Dean can't take his eyes off Frank. When he disappeared from his room, he never escaped. He led them to the motel, and he still died. There was never any winning with this place, just a deadly game with only one outcome. Except Sam outsmarted it somehow, and Dean's not even concerned; he's relieved. Hell, he thinks he wouldn't even have been bothered if Sam sipped on demon blood before blowing this joint. 

'We're never taking any cases from Bobby again,' Dean announces, as they walk back through the remains of the motel, and back to the Impala. They grab their duffels on the way - their things are untouched. Sam takes out the lighter fluid, but Dean thinks the place is gonna burn nicely on its own, it's so dry, like kindling. His brother throws the Zippo into the middle of their room, the room they almost died in; the flames devour it instantly. There's no reaction from the motel, and that's when Dean notices the lack of Impala's windows. 

'Dude!' he exclaims and Sam turns to him, pained. 

'Yeah, sorry about that,' he says, not sounding very sorry. 

They get inside - the creak of the car's door is so real and familiar, Dean thinks he’s going to cry - and drive away a bit, and stare at the burning building. Dean calls Bobby to tell them they're coming home. 

'You're giving up the case already?' Bobby asks. 'It's been like ten minutes, I didn't even get to check out the lore.' 

'Ten minutes,' Dean says, his voice tight. 'Right. Well, uh, it's done. We burned it down. You might wanna tip off some cops, uh, Frank's dead. And lots of other people. We're coming over.'

He hangs up before Bobby can ask him any questions. Sam's still watching the motel and the fire. He looks exhausted. 

‘You okay?’ Dean asks. 

‘Yeah,’ Sam lies. God, this must run in the family. 

‘Let’s go,’ Dean says - pleads? His voice shakes, but Sam doesn’t tease him about it. They don’t speak until they’re miles away from the motel, smoke and flames behind them. Dean turns on the radio; it plays Hotel California. Dean turns it off. 

‘Glad we're going to Bobby’s,’ Sam speaks up, sheepishly. ‘Don’t feel like another motel.’

‘Yeah,’ Dean breathes, agreeing wholeheartedly. ‘Can't wait to wash it all off me.’

‘You’re not gonna ask?’ Sam stares at his hands. ‘What happened at the station?’ 

‘Well do you wanna talk about it?’ Dean looks at him; the road is empty anyway. Sam shakes his head. ‘Yeah, me neither.’ 

There’s a city on the horizon, and once they enter it, Dean relaxes in his seat. Streetlights, people and all that; buildings, life. He thinks his theory was wrong, after all, though. Maybe it was facing fear the motel wanted, but it wasn’t feeding on it, or on their misguided souls. 

It fed on whatever parts of themselves they lost in the process of getting out.

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in july and i'm really happy to finally release it and hear what you guys think! let me and [the artist](https://girlinthemirrorbluenight-library.tumblr.com/) know! :))


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